Posts tagged ‘Pull The Pin’

September 15, 2008


by Lockdown

On the outskirts of Palm Springs a few years ago I saw unfinished tracts and tumbleweeds blowing through the living rooms.  All my old man’s poker buddies using their homes as ATMs… I remember asking Rickie what to make of it.  Rickie said shit would hit the fan and spelled out why in detail.  Nice call.  Paul Krugman of the NY Times was also on this — why there would be ripple effects, strange attractors and Lorenz butterflies causing long distance tornadoes.  One thing all the experts agreed on though: 1929 could not happen again because you can’t have national bank runs.  As of today they’ve reversed themselves — a guy clicking his mouse can cause a lot of trouble.   The point is that 1929 is now a possibility — it’s on the table as a scenario, however unlikely.

The RNC convention was an electronic Nuremburg rally — but I did not know Sarah Palin quoted Westwood Pegler in her convention speech… world class anti-semite and McCarthy commie-basher.  Wall St. Journal broke this and NY Times came in with “Palin knows no more about Pegler than she does about the Bush doctrine.  But the people around her do.”

Strange times that warrant cigars in the desert as the stars wheel overhead…

It will be interesting to see where this shakes out.  I remember in the middle of the junk bond scam I thought: This is Old Testament, baby.  Yaweh must punish.  It didn’t really happen — though I did see Mike Milken one night at the Hollywood halfway house at the head of Vine St. cutting the yellowed grass with a push-mower. I recognized him without his hairpiece.

September 3, 2008


by Damo Kandinsky

(excerpted from: PULL THE PIN: The KeroseneBomb Reader)


BEEP…channels opening…StrangeCorp data retrieval operational…

“LA call for ya, Mr S…”

The humanoid-voiceprint avatar clean forgotten since last night’s debauches sidled up to Strangelove, all mincing electro-hum, high pitched whiney love-me-cos-I’m-deferential self abasement, but the recumbent demi/household god was/is in no mood for trifling. He flicks/flicked a switch and the robot’s sarcasm/camp-banter circuit went dead on him.

BS, Buffy, Buffy to his friends, Mr Strangelove to those who go in fear of the wrath of God in (at least) 3 persons…today is BLANKO. These nuisance-value websites haven’t yet been closed down…the BS channels of influence not yet fully tumescent. Not yet characteristically tumescent with throbbing BS activity, agents up and down the line, digital agitators, flesh ‘n’ blood agents, cack-handed office functionaries, power bimbos with stick-on political convictions, court officers, corrupt Media barons, Mr. Bigs, none of them yet awake to the potentiality of Blanko Is Evil propaganda. Websites bearing the (semi)divine image, telling it like it is, as they say. They say he’s evil. But they know NOTHING. His good is their death. But…nothing. They’re like flies and he’s like a wanton boy. Kandinsky likes a good semi-classical allusion early doors. He’s the fucking boss though innit? We humour or defer. Humour or defer. He’s a moron but when roused…

“OK, ready…” hums Mr S as he eases into semi-consciousness. Today he sports a bald look, one bulging/one squinting eye and massive soup strainer moustache. He warms up with a few preliminary “Doh”s and squints at the vid-phone screen, puffing and blowing in exasperation. He’s worked it (somehow – nobody knows how, which is a function of the genius of StrangeCorp generally) that every time anyone anywhere in the world says “Doh” credit deposits are made into StrangeCorp accounts straight from FOX, and of course Groening is at his wits end, but that’s another made up story…

“Agent BDSM guv…” says the image on the screen.

A pregnant pause looms, but somehow also kick starts and simultaneously anticipates the strange banter to come in a manner not readily susceptible of description.

“Well”? enquires Strangelove.

“Well…well, we’re waiting…I can’t hold these goddam hyeanas off any longer Mr S. We…” he corrects himself “…they are still waiting. We…I mean they, want product. New product. StrangeCorp stocks are plummeting BS…”

Strangelove/Blanko merely looks nonplussed, blows through his moustache a few more times and fixes Agent BDSM with a bulge-eyed stare.

“Er, what I mean is, your, er, grace…”

BS dismisses the blandishments with a wave of the hand

“…uh, what I mean, BS, is that sanguine though you may be about the state of StrangeCorp stocks, there are rumblings in the financial jungle!”


Emboldened, Agent BDSM warms to his theme.

“Yes, rumblings! It may seem ludicrous to you, but we need product. Again. But…and I’ll tell you this for nothing mate…it’s got to be below 35,000 feet of film this time. That’s TOTAL length. Unedited. Get me? Somehow, your message must be condensed, de-tumesced…if you will…”

His tone softens appreciably as he leans into the camera, bumping his forehead as he does so.

“Listen Buffy, you know I’d only say this for your own good. I’m not trying to force you into anything. But you know, and I know, we all know, that not doing anything is like, well, you know the result in advance. Do something and the effects are, well, imponderable to say the least!”

And with that he sits back with the air of a man whose point has been well made.

And indeed it had been. Strangelove knew the wisdom of Agent BDSM. He knew that, even though StrangeCorp shares could never collapse entirely while he was still capable of MIndFUck Operations reality morphing (via subsidiary offshore holding Co RealityCorp Ents) the quality of the stock must never be allowed to depreciate appreciably. New product, he understood, was necessary for the continued maintenance of channels A B C and beyond…

New Product. Yes, why not? New Product out of his very own genes. New lines of discontinuance. New obfuscations. New HUMANS. New carefully covered tracks. Evil bastards in their prime halted in their tracks. New traditions of subservience, bullshit, obeisance and obfuscation to be nurtured.

Plus of course inaction almost always equaled De-Tumescence of the most distressing kind. Product is and was of course the be-all and end-all of existence. No point denying it. People need things to have, to touch, to dream…

Giving one last puff through his moustache, then, and fixing Agent BDSM with one last gimlet stare, he acquiesced…

“Agent BDSM, you’re a diamond…You done good my son…Hear me and hear me well. Your efforts will never go unrewarded while I breathe this fetid air. Are there any more like you at home Agent BDSM? Or did they break the mold when they made you? Your ingenuity in these matters will not go un-noticed while I still…[CLICK]…”

Agent BDSM was already gone. He had of course heard it all, and much verbiage of a similar nature, before.

Blanko sighed. The start of a good day’s work…and to reward himself he rolled over again, already Get Catered Michael Caine, nekkid with a shotgun(!) to all intents and purposes, and gave the boarding-house landlady, who for her part was wondering how on earth she’d ended up in this strange place, one of the best, most roistering seeings-to she’d experienced in many a long frustrated year…

Coming up for air, literal realities intervened…humming, straight from the enlarged, engorged brainpan of Strangelove. Fully channeled. All agents on standby…receiving. Direct download of spurious material…


“Bullet point this fucker would ya sweetie?”

Strangelove habitually disrespects employees but since they’ve all grown up in and beyond a universe in which this sort of disrespect is no longer regarded as a bad thing (ie: they don’t give a fuck themselves) they give as good as they get and given that Mr. S is a simpleton whose actual understanding of the channels of power he controls is attenuated to say the least, it doesn’t seem to matter to them. The power is always obtuse, impossible to actually discover. And that is his secret or one of them anyway…


We need…

· An impenetrable section. Full of abstruse imagery and lame-arsed pseudo- intellectual rambling. Something that will set indelible benchmarks of otiosity for the clinically tendentious and loathsome. This demographic should never be underestimated. It grows like a cancer. And we need to be ready to supply like with like, meeting this cancer in the body politic with a cancer of our own. A kick-ass cancer that brooks no backchat. This will take the form of impenetrable rambling of an intensely fatuous nature.

· A romantic interlude. Needless to say, for our purposes, “romantic” must perforce be an analogue of “pornographic”. I know for certain, Daisy, that in some influential circles, the only real romance left in the world is that of the pornographic. While I have personal issues with this outlook, I know it carries weight in certain bone-headed enclaves.

· An abstruse intellectual fugue. This must needs be composed of rhetorical elements purporting to explain ontological phenomena with reference to pop-cultural elements. I know it’s distasteful Daisy, but any book or film seriously intending to throw its intellectual weight around must of course touch these bases as delicately or as roughly as you like, according to taste. My personal preference (for what it’s worth – not much, as of course I exist merely to channel, to facilitate, to dream, to create, to babble, to expectorate, to haver, to prevaricate, to decipher, to alienate) is to take the rough with the smooth. With the emphasis firmly on the rough.

· A sex scene. This must, for obvious reasons, involve a multiplicity of rabbits. What’s that you say? It’s not obvious to you? My dear child, surely you know that rabbits are the most myth-laden creatures in the entire mytho-cultural realm. There barely exists a civilization in this or any dimension that I’m aware of that hasn’t seriously relied on rabbit iconography to bolster it’s sense of permanence or weightiness. Mythologically speaking, in other words, rabbits is where it’s at. But also clearly sex sells and by extension Key Moments in the narrative/continuum must be weighted with sex, freighted with rabbit imagery and sealed with a kiss.

Now, Daisy, I’m all shagged out. Come and give me one while I visualize. The visions must be unlocked. Agents must be placed on standby. Remind me, after you’ve sucked me dry, to memo Agent BDSM. Channels must be opened. And now, let us be GARLANDED with daisies. We enter the new world vision zone of Key Moments frozen in time/space. The ghosts are emerging…bottle the pure bliss…globules of love explode in image frenzy…3 Stooges…Marx Bros…Laurel ‘n’ Hardy…(later later)…Brando…Montgomery Shirtlifter…(earlier earlier)…Cagney white heat…no, too cack handed…Mae West…Adam West…(how’s that for a juxtaposition?)…Michael Angelo Caine…CAINE??? -30-

August 5, 2008


by Wrenchski

(excerpted from: PULL THE PIN: The KeroseneBomb Reader ; an extract of THE ALCHEMISTS NEGRO: My 30+ Years As A Motorsports Bottomfeeder)


A one-two finish is what I’m after now…

Running a two and a half car stock car team when you are the only one able to find which end of the screwdriver goes in the screw is not fun…or funny. I’m running around trying to get all the tires back in the racks while the team owner (2nd car drivers mom) is bitching about how if her (nearly retarded) son drove THE CAR WITH THE GOOD PARTS IN IT HE COULD WIN SOME RACES, and I’m thinking everybody thinks their kids a winner… then why does SHE think JR’s penchant for 12 year old girlfriends is perfectly normal when he’s a couplea years short of thirty… tires in the racks, where’s my jacks and stands and gas cans… O’sweaty is having his picture taken AGAIN with the goddamn checkered flag, and JR is in the spectator parking lot with his hand up Lolita’s skirt AGAIN… they were out there between the heats and the main event… I need a helper old enough to open my beers and pour them down my throat… mind made up next week O’sweaty gets the number 2 car into the top three AGAIN and JR wrecks the number 1 car for the third time as anything with the least bit of stagger and left side weight causes him to careen from the outside across the railroad ties marking the inside of the turns ruining the wheels and most of the suspension…he says it’s because the steering wheel is too big… (Mom bought him a tiny Grant chrome “racing” wheel for his B-day)

Fat balding man waddles up and offers me an open beer…

It’s that goddamn cheap ass stuff my parents drink…only reason that brewery is still operational is they’ve discovered firemen cops and other civil servants are EXTREMELY loyal IF you give them free kegs for their social gatherings… to NORMAL people it tastes like it was strained thru an old gym sock.

I slap it out of his hand and tell him to GET ME A REAL BEER, DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING OFF-DUTY COP, OR WHAT? BRING BACK A BUDWEISER, FER CRISSAKES… He stammers and walks away. Toward Mom…much gesticulating and talking…he walks off…

Moms asks me what I did to the guy in the Hawaiian shirt… Morry… Morty… huh?

I ask why she cares…

It would seem unbeknownst to me She had invited the DISTRIBUTOR of the previously mentioned swill to a lil’ after-race party for the brilliant idea of attempting to uh…date rape him and put the arm…lips…whatever on him for the expressed idea of buying say, a couplea MODIFIEDS and moving the whole deal into the big time… uniforms… trailers… trucks…tires… AND NOW I’VE RUINED EVERYTHING AND I’M FIRED…

I have to reply that firing a volunteer is difficult at best… especially when he DOES ALL THE WORK, AND OWNS ALL THE GODDAMN SUPPORT EQUIPMENT AND ONE OF THE CARS.

July 30, 2008


by Wrenchski

(excerpted from: PULL THE PIN: The KeroseneBomb Reader ; an extract of THE ALCHEMISTS NEGRO: My 30+ Years As A Motorsports Bottomfeeder)


I like to think of my kind as populating the pit gates of America’s short tracks in groups of two or three countrywide… I think we once did. Underage-jeans/work boots/denim jackets over sleeveless t-shirts… nervously smoking cigarettes while hoping to appear large enuff to be 21… waiting for tired men in old sedans and borrowed tow trucks to pull in without their regular help…” HEY KID, are ya here to stooge, or just stand around lookin’ tough,” Ol’ Red would say that, and you’d hop in his overheating Caddy, pass the pit steward and for toting tires fuel and pushing his TQ midget up to the track you got free admission and an eagles view of the racing from a first turn area marked CREW ONLY… we were hell’s own roadies…stooges they called us, as in “Who ya stoogin’ for tonight…?” Checking air pressure, occasionally removing the warm-up spark plugs and puttin’ in the colder racing ones if the guy knew ya’ well ‘enuff to let ya TOUCH his engine… and brandishing bruised knuckle fists AFTER somebody objected to YOUR driver putting HIS into the wall or sending him spinning into the infield out of the money… we were HELL’S OWN ROADIES, boys… we changed rear end gears layin’ on towel-covered cinders, hot grease dripping from our elbows and all the girls too young for a driver fell into our waiting arms… the beer and whiskey flowed afterwards and tall tales, verities and balderdash fle… we would live forever, and nothing would replace us. Nothing. It was the sixties, into the seventies, and we never changed. The game did.-30-

July 26, 2008


by John Tottenham

(excerpted from THE INERTIA VARIATIONS (EXPANDED) Release date: unknown.)


A long time ago I made a decision
To become a failure. It wasn’t
As easy as I thought: browsing through life
From one distraction to the next, while waiting
For the last lost moment to become unseizable.
As if there were some fundamental honesty
To not striving: There wasn’t. –
I suspected it all along.
May 19, 2008


by Wrenchski

(excerpted from: PULL THE PIN: The KeroseneBomb Reader ; an extract of THE ALCHEMISTS NEGRO: My 30+ Years As A Motorsports Bottomfeeder)


And the wheel was invented, probably by accident like everything else, maybe some nomad’s fire ring rolled downhill while he was moving it and he wondered what it would be like to RIDE that sucker…

He was gonna be the first racer and didn’t know it yet.

Fast forward to a time of mechanical mayhem.

Kids who found algebra too tame after evenings of making parts for old farm tractors discovered the old tin lizzie behind the barn and used it to invent motorsports…what was the reason to speed up the machine if you couldn’t prove your superiority by trouncing the kid next farm over… a whole sub-society was born.

They didn’t like the company of other people… when you tightened up a nut on a machine, it stayed tight or had a VERY logical reason for coming loose.

Not so with the human engine…it was born loose, and often stayed that way.

One of everything…one vehicle… one driver/mechanic… one toolbox, one spare whatever, a homemade towbar between the racecar and whatever you could borrow to drag the no-longer-legal-vehicle to the racetrack…

He was dirty, broke, smoked, drank, fought, fucked and pretty much did everything by himself for himself and didn’t care what anybody else thought about his actions.

He did not band, bond or hang around with a group…he was alone in his own thoughts… no desire to stand out in a crowd, his actions stood above them all and as groucho put it… wouldn’t join any club that would have him for a member.

And the promoters found him…people who could not show you a tangible product for their days work…they neither built, nor repaired.

They packaged.

They took yours… and they sold it to others… they sold the ability to stand right close to what you were doing, and bask in the dark sunlight of your deeds.

And you were left helpless by your inability to band together…you were rivals…you were combatants… you dreamed of ways to stand above crowds, not herd them together and empty their pockets.

The animals couldn’t run the Zoo. -30-

May 15, 2008



by Cole Coonce

(excerpted from PULL THE PIN: The K-Bomb Reader; an extract of COME DOWN FROM THE HILLS AND MAKE MY BABY)


I meet BZ the Screenwriter for a cup of jake and some lemon meringue at a place called the House of Pies on Franklin and Vermont in East Hollywood. The HOP’s habitues are old folks, the last vestiges of another Los Angeles, another Hollywood. Or maybe another lifetime on another planet. They are from an era when folks dressed in suits and put on a hat just in anticipation of a trip out of the house to get a piece of banana crme pie. In The House of Pies. Its architectural design is a weird, flattened variation on the Googi architecture that dominated the landscape in Southern California back when the car culture really took root in the 1950s and 60s. Sharp, salient and pointy, Googi would puncture the sky and catch the attention of passing motorists by its very shape.


Except for the House of Pies and some forgotten car washes in the ghetto, Googi has all but disappeared. Los Angeles has always possessed a real hankering to obliterate its past. It has no sense of history, and doesn’t want one. What earthquakes and fires fail to accomplish, the limited intellect and attention span of Los Angeles does. Most examples of Googi architecture were razed and bulldozed long ago, but somehow — perhaps because it was a muted variation on the style — the House of Pies survived the purge. In that tradition, the House of Pies angles are smashed two-dimensional and obtuse. It is one of the few buildings left that survived LA’s architectural purge of the 1980s, when boxy mini-malls, industrial complexes and 99¢ stores infiltrated the landscape like a virus.

BZ fits right in at the House of Pies. There is something about the old gomers there that makes him feel right at home. BZ is also not of this time. He considers this modern era — the Infotainment Age — a mistake.


I am late and when I get there he is already working on his pie as well as a weathered copy of the Nathanael West novel, The Day of the Locust. I order a cup of jake and a piece of pie. I ask about the plot and the theme of the book, which BZ tells me debuted in 1939 and scandalized Hollywood as an expose on the damaging effects of the motion picture industry.

“West not only tapped into the hubris of this town, but how the Dream Factory creates not just illusion, but its logical byproduct, disillusionment.”

BZ stabs the air with a forkful of gooey pie foodstuff. “It’s not that different from the people who make this pie filling.” Jump-started by gobs of processed sugar and caffeine, BZ is off to the races, kicking into high gear on a soliloquy on the Entertainment Industry as the New Military Industrial Complex.

“Hollywood is a self-perpetuating cottage industry,” he continues, “that must churn out more and more entertainment in order to survive. To grow. To flourish. Its insidious nature is such that it has to convince the Locusts, the consumers that they need to purchase and absorb this stuff in order to make their lives meaningful. Which was a lie worthy of Goebbels, who was just beginning to reach his stride in the Third Reich when The Day of the Locust was written. West was prescient in that he knew that entertainment is merely cultural fascism.”

“Are you telling me that there was little difference between, say, Irving Thalberg, Paramount Picture, pie filling and the Third Reich?”

My coffee and rhubarb arrive.

“The manufacture and distribution of pie filling is the least problematic. There is very little difference between what product is coming out of the studios and what propaganda was issued from the Politburo or the Reichstag after the fire.”

“But isn’t a screenwriter such as yourself equally complicit? Aren’t you as evil as, say, some Kraut in a guard tower at Dachau?”

“That is where you are wrong, sir. It all boils down to self-awareness. Read this book. No one in it is exempt from West’s wrath. But the protagonist-slash-anti-hero, Tod Hackett, shows uncanny and astute self-awareness that makes him the least dubious character in the entire manuscript.”


“Yes, self-awareness. It makes all the difference. Tod Hackett shows such traits in a painting he calls ‘The Burning of Los Angeles.’ Hackett finishes this painting just as Locust reaches it denouement in the form of a holocaust of fire on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“So this book is about the Apocalypse?”

“Yes. Rapture. The Judgment.”

“So you’re saying Hackett’s self-awareness spares him somehow? Umm, I still don’t see how self-awareness gives any of us an exemption.”

“Of course you don’t. You do not possess any. You are lost in East Hollywood and you happen to play guitar, the most reductive form of expression since the Sex Pistols immolated in San Francisco in 1978. You have this delusional idea that music is somehow different from the other forms of electronic media that corrupt the sanctity of the human spirit.”

“I am trying to reconcile this with your script, Zombie Cop.”

“You are missing the point then. As an artist, you are fucked but you do not know that you are fucked. Therefore, you are truly fucked. On the other hand, I am fucked, but I know that I am fucked. Therefore, I am not truly fucked.

“Do you see the difference? Of course not, because you are truly fucked.”

May 1, 2008


by Brad Zukovic

(an extract of PULL THE PIN: The KeroseneBomb Reader; excerpted from DR. BUCK’S LETTERS)


From a counter seat at Gower Denny’s, I watched Jack Ternan emerge from an oily blur of superheated air.

The heat was really shattering of the boulevard now, and Ternan’s bowed legs were massive in the glassy distortion, his shaved head craning high above traffic. From thirty feet, I made out a brow with a mouth-slash-pissed-off ’40s freak somehow still walking around. An unemployed actor was with him: a Viet Nam vet who’d ordered a coffee at Denny’s and saw the same cup staring at him twenty years later.

Next to me, McCaw had the maps out, and not the usual USGS topos of the Mojave desert either. These were military topos of places where they lit cobalt shots. He had Plutonium Pass circled in blue felt pen – that’s west of the Skulls where you find the Epson Salt Works if you feel like pushing the rental up a twenty-mile wash through sand traps. There were maps of China Lake and the Nevada Test Site… dry lakes where the dust devils follow you… uranium dumps… and the unobtanium of a cheerleader’s hips moving timelessly in time, mortar in the pestle of her gold country.

Jack Ternan barged into Denny’s and a couple of sleepers at the counter lurched up to greet him. He looked like a thing out of fllm noir, which he was – a heavy who had pissed away a run of Warner’s gangster flicks when he started caving in the jaws of his co-stars. Jack’s comeback began when his Billy clubbed mug appeared in “Hollywood Sodom,” a hipster coffee table book. That mug shot caught the attention of the young director Carlton Spigarelli, who hired Jack as the gangster chief in the first of his neo-noir hipster blood baths – the ones with the spaghetti western sound tracks. On screen, Jack played flat and real, and at age seventy-eight he was back in the chips. Unfortunately, Jack had gotten into it with Spigarelli, sending his teeth through his septum. Jack was blackballed again, bunkered in a day hotel near Hollywood and Vine, watching tourists through a tinted window and masturbating.

“We makin’ a run?”

“We are making a run, Jack,” said McCaw.

We drank fresh drip coffee and it was the first morning of the world. McCaw was two months from a shallow grave in Trona – explaining how the military copped an algebra of Banach spaces to send a drone down a chimney. Jack was doing a Walter Brennan shtick for the waitress and plowing down French Toast. At that moment I felt the cold breath of the future, but just as surely, the scene froze in a defensive reflex – entering the permanent record. I looked at the collar bone of the waitress, thinking, “There is a Moment that crosses all moments, even as they flow.”

I must have said it out loud because McCaw answered, “The Dedekind infinite – William Blake was onto it and that’s what they’re modeling with quandles in 3-space – running analog drones of of knots. That’s what we want to see.”

“I don’t give a fuck about drones,” Jack said, stabbing a finger at the map. “I want to find some gold.”

At that moment, Duce walked in, two months from being killed by a train in the yards east of downtown. Duce was a homeless, late 70’s punk – flush with cash, having just appeared in a hipster documentary wherein he fingered a former Clown Room stripper in the death of Kurt Cobain. Jack got up and embraced him. They had gotten tight playing Donkey Kong at the Cahuenga 7-11.

“Now,” said McCaw, spreading maps. “We are going to need water for this trip – lots of it.” -30-